On a beautiful Wednesday morning in Chicago at the iconic North Avenue beach, myself and a few friends got some nice games in early. At this time of day there usually isn't many people around, and as much as we usually live to play for an audience, to catch the "ooo's" and "ahhh's" against a back drop of top 40 music, it is moments like these that I love the most about beach volleyball. Since no one is there to cheer, no one to adore the highlight plays, long rallies, sky balls, and scrambles, the sport for a brief time exists in its purest form. It is just you, a net, lines, a ball, and the sand, and from time to time even the wind pauses to let you enjoy the serene calm, and transcend all stresses into a zen-like state of mind.
But summer was clearly in full swing that day, as large groups of people started to make their way onto the sand. One group looked like a summer camp for young kids and another looked like a girls volleyball camp that was apparently uninformed of the volleyball rental policy at NAB, but was still just content in enjoying the landscape, playing by the water, and peppering occasionally. That serene calm wouldn't exist to an outside observer but for a beach volleyball fanatic like myself I can usually tune it all out and maintain that unique symbiotic relationship between player and sand. It was then that I was distracted and my focus was diverted.
DePaul University's men's basketball team started to walk down the ramp of the boathouse toward the south end of the beach with coaches, team trainers, and managers carrying equipment with them, prepared to put their student athletes through a strenuous workout. It was then that it dawned upon me, that I was pitying them. I knew that they had no idea what they were about to walk into. I played basketball briefly in high school but the shortness of breath from "suicides" still doesn't compare to any of the training I've done on the beach.
Smiles, laughs, and chatter from the team filled the air, as we paused momentarily to marvel at their height, but I still couldn't wipe the smug grin that was growing inside of me as I continued to play and catch glimpses of their workout between points. They arrived at the beach on flat ground, and as basketball players they will return to the hard court for practices, but today will just be one of those tough conditioning days in their memory. For us, this is our world. They had the luxury of leaving, but there is no escaping the sand for us. Even as we head home, we still take the beach with us. It is in our bags, in our clothes, and in the cracks and crevices of our body that even water seemingly can't reach.
For any other athlete, a workout in the sand means that you will eventually retreat to your respective environment, but for us we flock to the sand, hoping that it never leaves us and warms the passion and dedication under our feet. Dehydration, sunburn, and fatigue, are no part of our vocabulary. They are just the tangible results of the love-hate relationship that we share with this sport. The lust and bitterness, sloppy scrambles and jump serve bombs is ingrained in the sport, so when we leave it all on the court, we remember every emotion and every point when we come into contact with those grains of sand, because they represent much more than eroded fragments of rock and glass. They are past versions of ourselves that we shed in pursuit of victory, success, and glory. So it isn't hard to understand why there is so much passion and a cult following that surrounds this sport, and how quickly you can get pulled into it. You can take the beach away from the player but you can't take the player away from the beach, because there is no escaping the quicksand.
Once a beach volleyball player, always a beach volleyball player, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.
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